Small Bean Creations

“I wish you wouldn’t stare at me like that.” Her voice sounded strained. It was accusatory, but he loved it anyway. He smiled to himself, still studying her. “I’m serious, stop it!” She batted him away, turning away from him once she’d distanced herself.

“Why?” He asked, tracing patterns on the palm of her hand because it was the only part of her he could reach now she’d moved.

Wriggling her fingers slowly out of his, she turned her head towards him, “Because I don’t like it. It makes me feel weird, like you’re looking for something. I can’t explain it.” She gave up and rolled her eyes before concentrating her gaze on the ceiling above.

“Well, I guess I am looking for something.”

Moving closer to her, he began to explain why he couldn’t look away from her eyes. He told her why he didn’t bother looking at the stars anymore because the constellations are nothing but stickmen to him now that he’d seen the artwork in her eyes. He told her that he couldn’t bring himself to look at books anymore because every second spent reading someone else’s description of the beauty of life takes time away from him that he could be using to look at her with instead. He told her that he’d forgotten what it was like to enjoy music because his taste had grown so accustomed to the symphonies composed in every blink of her eye.

“I look at you and I don’t need to hear you say you love me; I can see it right there when you look back at me.” He said.

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t stare at me like that anyway.” She spoke softly, each word pronounced carefully and delicately, as though she were tasting every vowel for the first time. Her sincerity made him sad.

Reaching out to her again, he took her hand in his, “I wish you wouldn’t say that. It just shows that you don’t think you deserve to be adored. Like you don’t think you deserve to be loved.” He paused, looking for some indication that she was listening to him, “The universe doesn’t deserve you. I don’t think it ever did. I wish I could go back to before I met you just so that I could stop anyone from ever hurting you. Then you wouldn’t mind it when I tell you how incredible you are. You’d like it, even.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Blunt, certain.

She moved her hand away from his again. He sighed and sat up. Walking away from the bed, he thought about her. He wished that she could see herself the way he saw her, the way she was intended to be seen. When she looks at herself she doesn’t see reality; she sees a cheap replica; a reflection in a dirty glass window; a distorted image in a river of mud. She was a breathing embodiment of poetry. She was his Amazing Grace.

He turned back to her, his hand musing over the door handle, “If I could draw, I would draw you the way I see you and you would finally understand why my eyes long to swim in yours. But, as it is, all I have are words and you refuse to listen to them. I’ll never tire of you.” He hesitated before he left, hoping she might give some hint at what was going through her head.

“I’ll never stop hoping that you will.” She didn’t even glance across at him. She just kept staring up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes for a moment, quieting his incessant thoughts. Then he turned the handle and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

I was pulled out of my stupor by a sudden reminder that I had company. My puppy, Starlet, was looking up at me with shining eyes. I smiled softly, lowering my hand so that my fingertips brushed delicately over her. She was a beautiful labrador with chocolate coloured fur and eyes so dark they almost looked black, but with a warmth that you can only get from brown eyes. I rested my hand where I thought her heart might be and looked back up into the sky. The cold air of the night was starting to get to us both; Starlet’s body small and cold under my fingers. I tugged at the blanket around my knees, pulling it up to my chest and over my shoulders. I leant over and gently scooped Starlet into my arms with as much ease as I could so as not to disturb her too much. I set her down into my lap and draped part of the blanket over her so that she could keep warm too. I didn’t care how cold it got -I was determined to see a shooting star that night.

When I was little, my sister and I stood in the garden one warm September night, watching out for shooting stars. She told me that if I saw one, I had to close my eyes and make a wish. I could make any wish I wanted, as long as it was something I wanted more than anything else. She said that I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone what the wish was, though, because then it wouldn’t come true. We stood out there for what felt like hours, although thinking back now it was probably only forty five minutes at the very most. At one point our dad came out, bringing us a couple of garden chairs and mugs of hot ribena. When we spotted the shooting star I got so excited that I jumped out of the chair, spilling steaming blackcurrant juice down my pyjamas. I didn’t care about the pain; I was too distracted by the stream of light that was chasing the star across the sky. I did exactly as my sister told me to: I shut my eyes tight and thought desperately hard about my wish. When I was done I opened my eyes and watched in wonder the last of the star’s light dissolving back into the dark sky. Then my sister took my hand and we went back inside, grinning the entire time.

My wish was my little secret. No one could know it because then it wouldn’t become reality. I’d always thought that was an interesting notion. Your thoughts are only as real as you let them be. As soon as you voice them they’re not fact anymore, they become a matter of opinion. Everything in my head is true, but not everything in my head is possible. I guess that’s why wishes don’t come true if you say them out loud; your imagination materialises the wish, and so once you speak it, it fades like clouds of breath in December.

I stroked Starlet’s head, distracted by the lights laughing at me from space. I looked out; past the stars and moon; past the night sky; past our corner in the universe. I stared at the tiniest speck I could find and wondered if there was anyone staring back at me. Some other girl on some other planet, watching the stars in the hopes that she’ll find what she’s looking for. Maybe she’s counting on a shooting star too. Maybe she’s waiting for a meteor shower. Or an eclipse. Maybe she’s taking a few moments to feel her feet on the ground holding her upright, truly acknowledging for the first time her home in this wasteland universe.

Maybe there’s no one watching me.

My wish didn’t come true. Or at least it hasn’t done, yet. One day it will, I’m sure. But right now I needed another one and this was my only hope. Things are going wrong. Little things, at first, that had barely any significance in my life had started to move and spin out of balance, and suddenly I found that they were knocking the bigger things too and, now, my world was whirling round and round and it wasn’t going to stop unless it crashed. It’s like being strapped into a rollercoaster seat and having to sit back and watch, powerless, as it hurls you face first into your death.

I first started to realise things were strange and unfamiliar when I was on my way home from a night out with a couple of my friends. I was walking down the road on the way to my house, with just artificial street light to help me see in the dark. Then I slowly became aware of the air around me. It felt like it was moving. Only slightly, but it was enough for me to notice. It was stirring, rippling the same way a puddle ripples if someone kicks a pebble into it. My hands felt the movements under the skin, my palm like a sea bed and the air a current flowing over it.

But I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, centred myself and carried on walking.

Nothing else happened after that for a little while. I forgot about it and went about my life as normal. I went to college, went to work, went home. Maybe it had been my imagination -I’d

always had a vivid one that could sometimes take over my reality. I’d accepted that theory.

I was suddenly jolted back to the present with a sudden feeling that something was wrong. I looked down at Starlet, who was still happily curled up in my lap, and ran my hand over her, checking that she was okay. This world was too dangerous for such a precious little dog, sometimes I would become possessed by such intense depression at the thought that something so beautiful and pure as Starlet was at the disposal of such a turbulent life. She didn’t deserve the world. More important than that, this world did not deserve her. It never deserved either of us.

I sat back in my chair, confident that the bad energy that had threatened me was gone for now. In July last year I was sitting in this exact spot, taking a moment to feel the weight of the academic year lift off my shoulders. I was spread out on the grass, my eyes closed. It was the perfect summer day. The heat of the sun wasn’t intrusive; it was simply there, calm and warm. But then the rays became uncomfortable. They grew hot and offensive, piercing through my cheeks, my forehead, my eyelids. They sliced into my skin. I could taste them, red and fiery on my tongue, snaking down my throat. I couldn’t breathe because the sunrays were forcing themselves down me, into my lungs, stuffing me full of flame. I lay there, unable to move. I was pinned to the ground, the grass curling round my wrists. I was a captive to the Earth and I was helpless. I couldn’t make a sound; my tongue had burnt under the heat of the sun and now it just sat in my mouth, crisp and black. I can still feel the sandpaper roughness of my seared eyelids when I blink.

Eventually I was released. The air had a pleasant warmth again and the grass was soft. I remember sitting up and running back inside the house. At the kitchen sink I splashed cold water all over my burning face and mouth. I spluttered and gasped, trying to get rid of the smoke in my lungs from my burnt skin. After I’d accepted that water wasn’t going to help the pain, I stumbled over to the nearest mirror and prised my sore eyes open to examine the state of my face. I recoiled from the image in the mirror; my face was spotless. There was no sign of the torture I’d endured -no cuts, burns, blood. My tongue, which I couldn’t even move now, looked absolutely normal. I remember crying, the salty tears stinging my raw skin. I couldn’t understand what was happening. I was in agony and there was no sign of it. After that I went into my room and stayed in there for weeks, refusing to come out. I was terrified of the outside. I couldn’t comprehend what had happened and I was so scared. Nothing could protect me but the four walls I had confined myself to.

My eyes were starting to mist up now as I remembered the attack. I tried my best to put it out of my mind. Nothing that happened after that first time was anywhere near as abusive or brutal as it was. The rest of the attacks were bad, yes, but not as bad. One time, when the air swept me into a treacherous current and threatened to drown me, I was certain I would die. But nothing was as painful as that first time.

Starlet was my centre. She gave off a gravitational pull. My parents bought her for me to protect me from the world’s bloodlust. Every time I felt the stirring in the air that signalled an attack, I clutched her and it passed. She was my saviour, but I knew I couldn’t rely on her forever. She wasn’t strong enough for that. Things were getting worse every day now and I needed something more powerful than a dog. I needed a miracle. I needed a wish. I stared and stared at the stars above me but they were just not cooperating tonight. I’d already survived three attacks this week, I don’t know if I can survive another.

The attacks were getting more personal these days. Now the world could creep inside of me. It had learnt how to speak and chose to take control of the tongue I’d lost that very first day. It could get me to do anything for it now. I don’t know why the attacks changed, they just did. One day I was being suffocated by clouds and the next I could hear the clouds inside my mind, telling me to force knives down my throat. Luckily my sister was with me at the time, and she tied my hands down to a chair with some rope she’d found in the shed.

I picked Starlet up again and held her close to my chest. I was so frightened. Nothing could protect me now; this was the last option. I buried my face into Starlet’s fur and cried. My soul is weak and wretched and it has been torn apart by every element to ever curse the ground beneath my feet. I am tired and I want to sleep. That is my only wish. I need an end, no matter what it is.

“Melanie.” A soft, timid voice called out from the darkness behind me. I turned my head and saw my sister standing a few feet away from me, watching me intensely. I nodded to her, allowing her to come closer. She walked slowly, cautiously, towards me. Her footsteps were light and padding, like those of a cat.

“Melanie, it’s me, Amelia. What are you holding?” Her voice had a tremble. It was barely noticeable, but my ears could pick up anything these days -they had to, for my survival. I turned back to Starlet, and held her up so that my sister could see her. I heard a sharp intake of breath before she started to talk. “Melanie, how did you get her?” The words were careful. Panicked, horrified even, but careful. I shrugged and nodded over to the mound of dirt heaped under the apple tree. I watched as my sister walked, as quickly as she could without disturbing the peace, over to the grave. She peered in and must have had her fears confirmed because she gave a little gasp before turning back to me.

“Melanie. Please put her down.” She requested quietly. Politely. I looked at the dog in my hands. My little saviour. I didn’t want to let go of her. Who would protect me with her gone? I shook my head at Amelia and hugged Starlet tighter to my body.

Amelia took in a deep breath and walked over to me. She crouched beside me, revulsed by the little dog in my arms. “Hey, Melanie. It’s me, Amelia. Your sister. I need you to put Starlet down. She shouldn’t be held right now. She should be asleep. Where we agreed to leave her, do you remember? You chose the spot under the apple tree because she loved to chase the falling apples.” I was crying now, my tears dampening Starlet’s fur. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Do you understand what happened? Do you remember it? It was during one of your seizures last week. We forgot to hide Starlet from you. I’m sorry we did that. I guess these things can’t be helped. You’re ill, Melanie. You can’t be blamed for this, I promise.”

I stared down at the dark grass beneath me. Of course I can’t be blamed for this. It’s not my fault. It’s the world around me. It’s the clouds that talk to me.

“Starlet needs to sleep. Let her sleep.” Amelia prised the little dog out of my arms, visibly recoiling at the smell.

Sometimes her skin Will fade to dirt The same way battles Will bleed to earth After soldier upon soldier Fall willingly down In a cry of sweat and murder.

Sometimes her eyes Turn from brown to grey To share the shade of dullness The same way the dead Will shed their flesh For hollow cut bones instead.

Once, he was meant to come over in the evening to spend dinner with us. He'd promised he'd be round by half six at the latest. I called him at eight, asking where he was; his dinner was getting cold. His voice was cold and unforgiving as the winter:

"Why are you always interrogating me? Always asking me questions. You're too nosey.”

I haven’t done anything –I don’t understand. Please stop shouting. Please. The kids are here, please don’t do this now.  

“What? This is my fault? Who was it that called who? You called me. You didn't need to do that, did you? You knew I was on my way, but that wasn't enough for you. You're such a control freak.”

Are you coming over or not?  

“No, I'm not coming! Why would I want to see you after you've called me just to fight? You've ruined it, you stupid, paranoid bitch!”

Please just come here so we can talk about this-

“Stop crying. You're embarrassing yourself. Is this what you want your children to remember when you're dead? Is it?”

I can’t breathe-

“Spare me the crocodile tears, sweetheart, no one believes you anymore.”

He hung up on me after that. He always hung up on me. He came over at midnight. He went to cool off in the pub and came afterwards. The children were in bed. When he arrived he took me into his arms and softly stroked my hair, "Don't cry, baby. I'm here now. Let's just forget about what happened, okay? We can still have a nice evening. The food smells great. You're such a good cook. Are the kids in bed? That's too bad; I wanted to see how they were. There, see? It's better now. It doesn't have to be difficult. It could be like this all the time if you didn't get so upset and I didn't get so angry. I'll be better next time, I promise. It's not gonna be like this anymore. I love you, okay? I love you. I'm here now, don't cry anymore, baby. I love you."  

Every single fight went the same way. It would start from nothing, and then he would go insane and scream at me that it was over and that I was the mental one. Then he'd come straight back into my life and promise he'd be better. I wouldn’t argue. I didn't believe him- part of me was just relieved he was being nice again. The other part of me was burning up because he didn't say sorry. Because he never said sorry. He’s never uttered that word to me. That night I cried in front of my kids for the first time. 

That was during the early days. That was back when his abuse still hurt me. At first, when he flipped because I’d asked him to spend Christmas with me one year and he yelled and screamed that I was a pathetic little bitch who needed to stay out of his business, it hurt. I cried for a long time, then. I didn’t get out of bed for six days. On the seventh he called me and told me he loved me and would I go away with him that weekend? And it won’t happen again, baby, I swear.

Then I got out of bed.

But after 9 years (or is it ten now?) his abuse stopped hurting me. What pierced through my gut was when he was nice to me. When he spent the day with me and re-decorated that room I’d wanted his help with for four months and he told me he was sorry for being so irrational all the time –that was what made my skin hot and uncomfortable and ill-fitting. When he kissed my kids on the forehead and asked them how school was and had that bitch stopped bullying his favourite step-daughter and would they like to go away this summer? That was what made me want to scream and cry and take a knife and run it through him, again and again and again. 

It’s all a lie. Everything he says and does is false and I forget if I’m real or not. When he’s cruel, I’m alive. I know I’m alive because the pain hits me the way he never did. The way I wish he would because bruises fade and cuts heal but the words he screams linger in the air and I breathe them in like second-hand smoke and they circulate through my body and remain there, stale and forever.

When he’s charming and sweet and funny I think I must be dead or dreaming –but what’s the difference, really? He’s nice and my body is numb and my mind is full of white noise and my mouth tastes wrong because everything is wrong. Everything is a lie because he is a lie. And if everything is a lie then life must be a lie so I guess I must be dead or dreaming. 

After all these years I have only one request. One favour. Just this:

Please hit me. Please go mad again, the way you did five years ago. Please try to smother me to death and break my nose and my fingers so that the police will believe me when I tell them I’m being abused and I’m in danger. Please leave me bloody and broken so that I can go to them and tell them it’s you that did this and has been doing this for nine years but it’s been emotional rather than physical and please can they lock you away because I’m not sure if I can get out of this by myself.

I’m not sure if I can escape you alone. I’m not sure if I can escape you at all. I’m not sure if I-

I’m not sure-

You’re a tunnel of a thick tar blackness and I’m running away from your walls but they’re caving in around me. I’m not sure if I’m running in the right direction or if I’m even running at all.

It was the ghost that haunts my mind And I hope to God he does not find The hope I clutched and kept as mine. The hope, my beloved, I kept behind.

This is the night and I am the day: The ever cold and lasting grey; The broken glass on the wood night stand; I am the sin, his tainted hand.

You draw and your hands dance Like butterflies, like dew drops on green Like baby bird feathers floating Like a brook over steel stone.

The air is running its clammy fingers through my hair, tugging at me as I walk. The wind is trying to pull me back; it’s crying for us. I'm sure the rain is hardening to ice on my cheeks. There are chips of snow in your hair, dotting your dark curls with bright white crystals. You look just as innocent and pure as the day I met you: a tragedy wrapped up in the body of an angel. 

We have to stop now. I'm looking around and I wish you could see the beauty surrounding you. This is your home. This was always going to be where you belong. There isn't anything else here with us. I can just about hear the waves crashing in their eternal rage down below us. Slowly, I kiss your forehead. I remember when you caught the flu two years ago, just before Christmas, and I kissed your forehead because you were upset. It was red and fiery that time. Your skin burnt my lips. Now your forehead is colder than our room was that winter. 

His eyes searched mine for something I didn’t understand. They were desperate. Hungry. Starving for something rosy, something warm. Then he lost his nerve and looked at the glass on the floor instead. The off-white carpet was peppered with tiny crystal nuggets, simple in their beauty yet decorated with complicated structures. I like them.

I didn’t break the mirror. Danny did. I was playing grown-ups with him. He thought that he should be Daddy because he’s a boy and so I had to explain to him that he had to be Mummy because he was weaker than me. He kept arguing. I thought he was just playing along with the game so I did what Daddy would have done and pushed him. It was only light, I didn’t mean for him to break anything. He shouldn’t have fallen so heavily. His head struck the mirror. It sounded like when Daddy breaks the branches over my knee for the fire in the winter.

Mummy left me in charge because I’m the oldest. She told Danny he had to do as I say, so I told him we were going to play a game and that Mummy would tell him off if he refused. In our games I always won. The only time he could win was when I got bored. It gets dull after a while – winning all the time. That’s why sometimes I let him think he’d won, and then I’d show him exactly how and why he’d lost. And I’d remind him that losers get forfeits.

“Your ten seconds are up.” I smiled; this was where the fun started.

“Why, Tilly?” he whispered. His words sounded strangled and ridiculous; they fluttered about in the air then faltered, defeated.

I twirled myself around his arm, “Because it’s fun! And it’s raining. It’s so boring when it rains. Also, the cat ran away and left me alone again.”

Defeated, he sat down. He’s only a little boy. Teachers always tell me that children should do as they’re told and Danny always did what I told him to do, so he must be a child. I sat down in front of him, “Okay, now close your eyes and open your hands. Good!”

His hands were splayed open. I placed the small, glittering shard onto his palm. I waited. He did nothing. Sighing, I closed his fingers around the glass, “You see? Like this. It isn’t that difficult, is it? Now, draw me a pretty picture!” I demanded, my eyes glinting like the broken mirror. I loved it when he drew for me. I was no good at drawing, but he had a talent for it.

I knocked on his forehead, raising my eyebrows, “Hello? Is anyone there? Please draw for me! Otherwise I’ll have to draw and you know I can’t do it as well as you. I always colour outside the lines. You’re so neat! When you draw, it’s like watching one of those doctors cutting open a sick person. Like when Mummy was ill. Remember? Daddy said she was hurt and had something bad inside of her and that they had to open her up and take it out.  When you draw for me, it’s like you open yourself up and take all the bad things out. Then I’m happy again. Paint for me.”

He knew I made a mess whenever I drew. He knew it would be faster and less painful if he did it himself and, whether he did it or not, he knew he would get a new painting to lock away anyway. So he did what I wanted. He always does. He clenched the shard in his fist and brought it to his arm. I watched him, wide-eyed. I loved the colours! Splashes of crimson, twinkling in the glass. Sunlight pierced through the window and lit up the fragments on the floor, washing the room in red.